A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  To Captain W. Stiles

  St. Augustine’s-back, 29th October, 1703

  Sir,

  It falls upon your humble servant to inform you of a matter whose import I much regret since it is certain to grieve and disappoint you.

  Rather than hold you in suspense, Sir, I will spell the matter out forthwith. Mr Tuffnell’s associate Mr Josiah Cheatley has this day confirmed that he will not accept the terms agreed when the present voyage to Guinea was arranged in March, having forged fresh connections in London whose terms would be more advantageous than ours were he to avail himself of them. In short, rather than six hundred and eighty-two pounds five shillings, he insists upon seven hundred and fifty-two pounds, seven shillings, and sixpence sterling in exchange for the iron manufactures due for export in the Prudence. Mr Cheatley begs us to understand that if we fail to meet his revised terms of an additional ten per cent he will no longer agree to a part in any future consortium of which we are a member.

  It does not require stating that payment to Mr Cheatley for his manufactures was promised on the safe and satisfactory conclusion of the voyage, and is thus due many months hence; but whenever the date should fall, in availing himself of so much greater a proportion of the profit, Mr Cheatley renders the voyage vastly less advantageous to ourselves.

  In addition to this matter is one that shall be divulged to Mr Tuffnell in person, Sir, later today. I trust this secondary news, which reached me via a friend whose master has links with men of business in Jamaica, including a certain owner of a large estate in Kingston, is of little significance; and that Mr Tuffnell has no reason besides the above to consider his circumstances less secure, and his prospects less satisfactory, than he has been accustomed to regard them since the first of his profitable ventures to Guinea and the West Indies. However, on arriving in Jamaica it may be wise of you not to represent yourself as better connected via your master than is justified by intelligence at the present time.

  I am, Sir, your humble and obedient servant, and, I hope, your trusted and respected friend,

  Henry Wharton.

  Well, my curiosity is roundly punished, for I am scarcely likely to discover the ‘secondary’ matter Mr Wharton refers to, or the identity of the mysterious planter in St John’s, unless I change into a fly and buzz in through a window when he visits Wine-street. As for the information in the first part of his letter, it is shocking to think a ship may be laden and ready to set sail and its chief investor subject to sharp practice, and yet I am not really surprised to learn it, for on reflection Mr Wharton’s tone is more exasperated than outraged, as though Mr Cheatley’s conduct is much as he expected.

  I tuck the letter away and rise to my feet, whereupon a builder in a dusty leather apron takes my place under the cross and sets to champing on a pastry.

  ‘Can you tell me where to find Mr Tuffnell’s house, Sir?’

  Swallowing noisily, he shows off a set of long and crooked teeth. ‘Past the Market House, below the walls, overlooking the tower of St Peter’s. You’re in chucking distance.’ He waves his crust in the direction of a covered market-place, and resting it on his grimy knee, gulps from a leather bottle.

  ‘That’s me done for my dinner,’ he says, and gets to his feet; for a moment I think he is ready to show me to Mr Tuffnell’s, but without a farewell he turns and strides back to his place of work, a half-built house across the way. In truth no one in Bristol has time or inclination to spare me a glance. Which might be lonely, but is a kind of giddy freedom after Erlestoke where we all knew one another’s business.

  Wine-street is busy with people on foot, and riders picking their way through the traffic, and most of all with car-men hauling sledges, for though it is wide and prosperous compared with All-Saints’ yard, many of the houses boast cellars where merchants, wishing to save the cost of running a warehouse on the quays, or perhaps unable to afford such conveniences, keep goods at home where they are less likely to be stolen. At intervals along the street, therefore, hatches are propped open and pairs of delivery-men are lifting crates, bales and barrels through them and onto sledges, or else lowering such items to be stored or divided up for sale. A short way past the Market House I reach a door whose lintel is painted with the word Barbuda, and look up to find an imposing building four storeys high, with wide, glazed windows, a steep roof and, from what I can see, a stable at the rear as well as a handsome garden and perhaps an orchard, judging by a pair of apple trees visible through a paling.

  A youngster is hard at work sweeping the front. He has been occupied some time judging by the muck waiting to be wheeled away, and he stops as I approach, playfully balancing his chin on the handle of his shovel as if glad of an excuse to rest.

  ‘Where can I find Mr Tuffnell, young man?’

  ‘At the Tolzey Walk?’ His tone implies I ought to know where he means. ‘Or you could speak to Mrs Tuffnell if you go through the yard. Suke Cross the scullery maid will let you in.’ He grimaces. ‘Don’t look for kind words from her.’

  ‘Is she bad-tempered?’

  He rubs his ear. ‘Very.’

  On cue a sulky girl in a dirty linen apron barges through a side-gate and grabs the shovel.

  ‘Yammering when you should be working, George Goodfellow.’ She thrusts the shovel into his hand. ‘Get on with it, before I tell Mr Roach what a lazy devil you are.’

  ‘Mr Roach?’ I repeat, sounding as innocent as I can. ‘Who’s he?’

  She glares. ‘What business is it of yours? He is Mr Tuffnell’s groom, and the master of this idle lad.’ Dodging her raised fist, George sets to with the shovel (though I glimpse him grimacing at Miss Pot-Scrub when her back is turned), and leaving him to his task, I show Suke Cross my letter.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss. I was asking where I could find your master.’

  ‘He’s at the Tolzey. He’ll be home soon,’ she snaps. ‘Give your letter here. George! Move! I want the whole street spotless or you’ll miss your dinner.’ And to ram the point home she grabs the waiting barrow by its handles and bangs it down.

  I do not intend to trust my letter to a shrieking scullery maid, but before I can say as much the street door opens and a lady appears, no doubt curious to see the cause of the commotion.

  Mrs Tuffnell is young, no older than my sister Liz, smooth-complexioned and with large black eyes, her mouth a vivid pink and her hair arranged in tousled shining curls beneath a cap of lace. Her sleeves are finished with ruffles, as is the neckerchief half-covering her bosom, while her petticoat is cherry-red taffeta and her gown red velvet in a darker shade; but more eye-catching than the lady is the child on her arm, the handsomest little black fellow you can imagine, dressed head-to-toe in the most expensive suit I have seen on a child, twilight blue satin trimmed with red and gold braid, gold rosettes on his knee breeches and gold buckles on his blue stuff slippers. Yet his face is blank, his eyes are dull, and I remember my mother saying she always knew if a child was frightened or unhappy.

  I curtsey to his mistress.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Madam, a letter for Mr Tuffnell.’

  She puts out a hand. Her fingers are soft, the nails well-shaped. She smells of something sweetly fragrant, geranium oil or rose-water, perhaps.

  I keep a firm hold of the letter, though I hardly know why. ‘Shall I run to the Tolzey Walk, Madam?’

  ‘Oh no, indeed no.’ She inclines her head. ‘Poor James, beleaguered night and day. He won’t thank you for interrupting his business-dealing. Let me have the letter. Don’t fret, girl. I’ll give it to him as soon as he comes home.’

  I cannot think of an excuse to say no, and so with reluctance I hand it over, adding, ‘I was told to ask for a receipt, if you please, Madam,’ though in truth neither Mr Wharton nor Captain Stiles mentioned one.

  ‘Very well,’ she says with passable good humour, though her irritation is clear as day. ‘Come into the house and I will write you your receipt. No need to stand and stare, Susan Cross, I heard Mrs Hucker just now tell
you to scrub those pots, and yet I find you standing in the street, ear-wigging your betters.’ If looks could kill, George and I would be dead alongside Mrs Tuffnell; Miss Pot-Scrub turns a furious shade of scarlet.

  ‘Step in,’ Mrs Tuffnell says, indicating to me, and as soon as I obey she shuts the door firmly behind us, leaving Pot-Scrub to go in through the back.

  The hallway of the house is panelled in dark oak, and the furniture finely carved, and I am led into a room that was once perhaps a shop but is now a room for business, indicated by the large table in the middle of the floor, and a writing desk in the window with books and ledgers on it and several pens and a silver ink-well.

  ‘Now then,’ Mrs Tuffnell says, absently stroking the cheek of her page-boy, ‘let us see if your Bristol papa has a scrap of paper I may borrow.’ She riffles through the desk. ‘Shall we tell the errand-girl what we mean?’ Without waiting for the boy to speak, she continues, ‘Pug here was born in Jamaica and brought to Bristol last year on my husband’s orders, and it is my fancy that we are his Bristol parents since he bid farewell to his negro mother and father when he left the Caribbean for his new life.’

  Pug? Why do you call by him a dog’s name, I want to ask?

  ‘Pug’ leans over his ‘Bristol mamma’ as she writes, and when she finishes he picks up the slip of paper and puts it on a pewter salver before presenting it to me with a bow.

  Mrs Tuffnell watches with an eager smile.

  ‘Is he not the cleverest black boy you ever saw? So quick and obliging. Thank you, Pug,’ she says, and swoops on him, gathering him in her arms and raining kisses on his head. Most lads his age would baulk at such treatment, but this boy is either content or else afraid to offend, for he submits to Mrs Tuffnell’s caresses without resistance, though I notice he does not kiss her in return.

  ‘Now then.’ She pats his hand. ‘You must let Mamma read her letter.’ I inwardly protest, ‘But it isn’t yours,’ as, without a trace of embarrassment, she rips the paper open, pulls out a chair and sits at the table to digest the contents.

  I would like very much to see her face as she reads, but she waves me towards the door. Then, as I have my hand on the knob, hoping a servant will arrive to show me out, she calls me back.

  ‘On second thoughts, you may take a note to Mr Tuffnell, since you were on your way to the Tolzey in any case. Hand me a pen, dearest Pug, so I may write your Bristol papa a few words.’

  I suppose the lady is in love, for she sighs and blushes as she writes, and looks at me coyly when she is done. Then she adds her seal to the letter, pressing her signet ring into the melted wax, and regarding the results with smiling satisfaction.

  ‘No need to mention the letter you brought, girl, I have wrote Mr Tuffnell all about it.’ Saying this she picks up Mr Wharton’s letter again, crumples it in her fist, and tosses it into the fireplace. ‘There!’ she says, as the paper catches alight, flares and turns to ash.

  ‘May I show her the way to the Tolzey, Mamma?’ asks the boy. His voice is plaintive, and I wonder how much fresh air he gets, waiting on a lady whose plump figure and snowy hands hint that she is fonder of the tea-table than of setting foot outdoors.

  ‘Pug,’ she reproves. ‘You are too precious to send with someone I don’t know.’

  His face falls, and she thinks again. ‘To the corner, then, and no further. Run and change your shoes. Stuff slippers are not for crossing muddy streets.’

  When the boy has sped away she lowers her voice: ‘Is he not the prettiest child you ever saw? I shall never forget the day my husband presented Pug to me. He was ashen-faced after his voyage, mere skin and bones. We burned his clothes and fattened him on cakes and cream, and had the tailor make him two new suits. People stare so when we walk out. He carries my prayer-book on Sundays, you know. I call him my Afric son, other times my little Moor.’

  Having exchanged his slippers for leather shoes, her page returns and listens to the end of this gushing speech with lowered head. Mrs Tuffnell plants a dozen kisses on his neck, telling him she loves him, but his manner changes the moment we leave her company. He scuffs his way down the passage in silence, and when I put my hand on his shoulder, ready to enquire if he would rather let me find my own way to the Tolzey, he shrugs me off.

  ‘Or I can ask the stable boy to show me the way. George Goodfellow, is it? What is your name, besides “Pug”?’

  ‘You can call me Abraham.’ He eyes me sullenly. ‘I want to show you the way. She said I could.’ But he speaks as though he is used to being granted his wishes only to have them thwarted.

  ‘Then of course you must,’ I say, as Abraham lifts the latch of the street door and leads me out. His fingers are warm and his small palm soft, and he clutches my hand tightly when a passing waggon splashes us with mud.

  ‘Poor George,’ I say as we pick our way along the muddy pavement. ‘All his good work undone. He will have to hope Suke doesn’t blame him for it.’

  ‘I wish Mrs Tuffnell would dismiss Suke Cross,’ is the reply. ‘She shouts at everyone but Mr Roach. She deserves to lose her place.’

  ‘Does she?’ If so, there would be a vacancy at Barbuda House for which I might apply, though I admit I would prefer a position elsewhere than the scullery. ‘Mr Roach is the groom?’ I ask lightly.

  ‘And Suke’s particular friend.’ Abraham picks up a stone and flings it to the ground. ‘A worse bully than she is. I saw him hold a knife to someone’s throat one night.’ I see a flash of panic in the boy’s eyes as he realises he has said too much.

  ‘Well, Bristol is a rough-and-ready place, I daresay. As long as he didn’t draw blood from the man he threatened.’

  ‘It wasn’t a man.’

  ‘Who was it then?’ But Abraham will not answer, and kicks his stone along the ground so he need not meet my eyes.

  ‘Abraham? Who else works for your master and mistress?’

  He looks up, his face brightening slightly at the change of subject. ‘Mrs Hucker the cook. Nell Grey the housemaid and Jonty the footman.’

  ‘And are they kinder than the others?’

  ‘A little,’ he admits,’ adding sadly, ‘sometimes.’

  ‘Is it far to the Tolzey?’ It seems wise to distract him from the subject of his fellow servants.

  ‘Not at all.’ He stops, pointing to a set of arches I noticed on my way to Barbuda House. ‘That’s the Tolzey. Mr Tuffnell goes there every day but Sunday.’

  ‘Your Bristol papa is one of the richest men in the city, isn’t he?’

  Abraham looks at the Tolzey with contempt. ‘Mr Tuffnell is not my “papa.” My father ran away, no one knows where, and my mother is dead.’

  ‘I thought Mrs Tuffnell said you had left your real parents behind in the West Indies.’

  Abraham hunches his shoulders and speaks tonelessly. ‘My mother was tied to a post and whipped until she fainted, and she died the day after. Mrs Tuffnell tells falsehoods even though she goes to church on Sundays.’

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell may not know what befell your mother, Abraham. Jamaica is a great way off. Or she may be afraid to distress you. Who whipped your mother? Why did they do such a thing?’ But I remember what I was told about some plantation owners and their treatment of their slaves, and I do not really doubt the boy.

  ‘She scolds me every day and sometimes beats me and locks me in the cellar.’

  ‘If you are naughty she must correct you.’ I speak half-heartedly, for my mother and father never beat us and would not have locked us in a dark place however wilful our behaviour.

  ‘She does it to be cruel. She is not my “mamma” and I am not her son.’ Despite his efforts, tears roll down his cheeks and threaten to bring forth tears of my own on his behalf.

  I reach into my pocket and pass him my handkerchief. ‘You must be careful what you say, Abraham—what you repeat to strangers. Mrs Tuffnell may have her moments of temper but she is fond of you, I am sure.’

  He shakes his head. ‘She was fond of Philo before h
e died. She forgot him in a day. She used to sit him on her knee and now she does the same with me. And I am eight years old.’ Another shower of angry tears.

  ‘Eight?’ I say, feigning astonishment. ‘You’re so well-grown I thought you nine at least. Was Philo your mistress’s dog?’

  ‘Mine, not hers. I found him starving in the yard. I taught him tricks. And now he’s dead.’

  ‘That is sad, but you know dogs do perish. They eat all manner of noxious things, or catch the distemper.’

  ‘Philo never would have died if it hadn’t been for Mr Roach.’

  ‘Poor Philo. Perhaps you may find another stray soon.’ As I say this I am afraid I must sound much as the fine lady did who advised us to forget my brother Tom. ‘I think you’d better run indoors before your mistress sends someone to find you,’ I say, shaking his hand gently. ‘I hope to see you again one day, Master Abraham. Perhaps you may be more cheerful then, indeed I’m sure you shall.’

  ‘I shan’t. I am unhappy every day. Unhappier still since I lost my dearest friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry if a dog was your dearest friend.’

  ‘Hannah was my friend. Mrs Tuffnell’s maid.’ Abraham has forgotten my handkerchief, and sniffs and wipes his nose with the heel of his hand. ‘She was good to me—to everyone. One day she left without a farewell, and I am forbid to mention her. I wish I could wear a leather jerkin and sleep in the stable loft with George Goodfellow, but instead I am tricked out and made to pour my mistress’s tea and wind her wool, and even comb out her hair because she has no lady’s maid since Hannah went.’

  He pushes my hand away at the end of this outburst and darts back to Barbuda House, leaving me in no doubt that Hannah must be the same who is Mr Espinosa’s sister, and the great friend of Esther Wharton, and whose time in service is the cause of the warnings I was given about certain Bristol households. Yet I must wonder whether folk such as Mrs Wharton and even Mr Espinosa can truly understand how for some a servant’s place with a well-off family—even where the mistress is ill-tempered—might be preferable to seeking labour every day and finding none.